Wereworld: Young Werelords
by HellenisticHuman
Summary: Five years have passed since the War of the Werelords, and peace reigns in Lyssia. But across the straits, a fearsome host assembles in the blackest depths of the Bastian jungles. With a trusted band of therianthropes by his side, Drew Ferran must once again ride for war- a war he fears he may never recover from.
1. Chapter 1: The Wolf's Den

**Greetings and salutations! This is my first humble attempt at doing some fanfiction, so any comment or critique would be greatly appreciated. As a general disclaimer this story contains many characters canon to the Wereworld series that I do not have the rights to, but also several OC's that have been implemented in order to further the story. In simple words, I hope you enjoy!**

Young Werelords

 _The Wolf's Den_

 _Harsh cries echoed through the night. The boy stumbled over roots that reared up from the ground like serpents, poisonous sap leaking from cracks in their bark. Afraid, he cast his eyes about, but in the shadows of the forest, red eyes glared back at him. The stench of death invaded his senses, and he gagged as corpses fell from the trees like rotting fruit, rearing up to confront him with blue flames dancing in their empty eye sockets. A withered, blackened hand grasped his throat, forcing him to look down into a sheet of ice. Beneath, a beautiful girl lay. But as he watched, frost crept up her body, stealing her heat, killing her slowly. The boy backed away, clawed hands pulling him deeper into the blackness as tears fell from his cheeks over the girl that vanished…_

The sun streamed in through the open shutters, casting its dappled light over the bedroom, bringing with it a fresh breeze and the scent of baked bread. From within his twisted covers, Drew Ferran awoke with a start, heart racing as the nightmare that had plagued him for years receded in the daylight.

"Troubled sleep, my King?" asked a gentle voice with barely concealed sarcasm.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Drew flipped over to see the genial face of Hector, his trusted advisor and best friend, looking down at him. Five years had passed since the War of the Werelords, and in that time Hector had greatly recovered from his affliction.

What at first began as simple experimentation quickly devolved into something much worse. With Drew gone, an absence he never forgave himself for, Hector had fallen under the sway of dark magicks. After communing with and then absorbing the spirit of the Wererat Vankaskan, Hector's old master, his powers grew to uncontrollable heights. Possessed by the corrupted spirit of his deceased brother, Hector went from a meek magister to a feared necromancer by the name of Blackhand and took up residence in the Sturmish city of Icegarden, turning it into a city of the risen dead.

Eventually Drew was capable of freeing Hector from his curse, but at a price. Hector lost his hand, but Drew lost something more precious: his new bride, Lady Whitley of Brackenholme, who sacrificed herself to give him the chance to save Hector.

"You don't know the half of it, Hector," Drew replied casually, wincing as his bones creaked and cracked after remaining dormant for so long. "Same dream as it always is."

"I could brew up a tincture to help you sleep better-" began Hector.

"Restrain yourself Hector. I've put up with this dream for five years now, I can withstand it five years more," said Drew with a grimace. "Now go, get down to the Hall. I'll join you and the rest of the company once I've dressed."

Hector nodded and swiftly withdrew from the room, closing the heavy oaken door behind him. Drew sighed softly, drawing back the covers and watching the morning light dance across the intricately made White Fist of Icegarden that sat on his left wrist. He still remembered the arcane ceremony that had bound the mystical gauntlet to his arm, performed under the light of the moon.

He shook his black hair out of his eyes and picked up his cotton shirt and pants, pulling them on over his toned, scarred body. Reaching down, he slipped into his boots before walking calmly towards the door, pausing only to put the forest-green leather jerkin that identified him as a captain of the Woodland Watch.

Stepping into the well-lit, ornate corridor of the Great Oak, he made his way down towards the hall, following the sound of raucous merriment. The last to arrive, he waited in the shadows of the archway, observing his friends and colleagues-in-arms as they enjoyed each other's company.

Duke Bergan sat in his wide and sturdy throne at the head of the table, his mighty war axe leaning against his leg and a tankard of ale in his hand. The Old Bear threw his head back and roared with laughter at something Hector said, the rafters shaking at his exaltation.

Behind a pile of cooked meats, Lord Mikotaj, the White Death of Shadowhaven, sharpened his colossal spear with a whetstone. Beside him, Drew's half-brother Trent, grinned wolfishly as the tall, pale warrior muttered something coarse under his breath.

Two newcomers to the city of Brackenholme were sat at the table. Drew assessed them from his hiding place, studying their appearances to determine their intentions.

One was of the same complexion as Mikotaj, but where the White Death was muscular and broad, this character was lithe and willowy. Long silvery-white hair fell like mist around their face, and when they turned to look Drew dead in the eyes, Drew couldn't suppress the grin that filled his face as he looked into the amber gaze of Miloqi, sister to Mikotaj and one of Drew's closest confidantes.

The other visitor was unknown to Drew however. His darkened skin and black hair suggested he came from the desert realm of Omir, as did his light silken clothing wrapped loosely around his body. An ornately carved staff lay across his lap, three metal hoops of different sizes looped through the top at various points.

Finally, Hector spotted Drew lurking in the shadows. "There he is! Fellows, raise your tankards for our esteemed leader!"

"Three cheers for the Wolf of Westland!" called out Trent.

Drew waved their cheers aside graciously and slunk into the room, eyes casually locked onto the Omiri visitor. The male met his gaze levelly, his dark brown eyes narrowing slightly as he in turn assessed who Drew was.

"What brings you to the realm of the Bear, Omiri? Seems a little too… alive for your liking," chuckled Bergan, looking down at the boy with raised eyebrows.

"Enough," snapped Miloqi. "I brought him here. He has… potential."

The Omiri stood up from his seat unexpectedly, the rings embedded in his staff jangling slightly with the sudden movement. Immediately Drew's company was on the offensive, several weapons drawn and aimed towards the young man, Drew's fabled sword Moonbrand included.

Miloqi, however, was unfazed, and lightly pushed the head of her brother's spear aside, a light flickering in her eyes. "Really boys, is this how you treat visiting royalty?"

"Of course!" exclaimed Hector. "Forgive me, my lords, but I had forgotten to announce the good news: Lady Hayfa finally agreed to the terms of our treaty. And to show her intentions are true, she intended to send her son. Which would mean…" Hector turned to the Omiri with a quizzical expression.

"Your assumptions are correct, Boarlord. I am Lord Hayan, heir apparent to the city of Ro-Shann. And," he said with a slight smile, "A distant cousin to you, Drew Ferran."

Mikotaj's booming laugh cut through the silence that followed. "A relative? Why did you not say so? Let me welcome you in the way of my people," he said, pulling the Omiri lord into a bear hug and ruffling his black hair with a meaty fist, while Miloqi sighed and placed her head in her hands, publicly humiliated by her brother's antics.

Drew smiled and took a lengthy draught from his tankard. As he placed it back down on the table, he felt a huge hand gently land on his shoulder, and looked up to see the kind face of his father-in-law smiling down at him.

"Now Drew, you know I hate putting pressure on you. Brenn knows how much has been heaped upon you over the years. But you've grown into a powerful and proud young man, and I wouldn't be saying this if I didn't think you could handle it." The old Bear reached into his jerkin pocket and pulled out a crisp roll of parchment, bound with the Parliamentary seal. "This came last night from Westland. The Council of Men have agreed to attend Brenn's Feast alongside us therianthropes."

"Nothing to be concerned about there, my Lord. You were making this out to be some sort of tremendous fuss, but I see no problems here."

Bergan huffed softly, reaching up with one finger to wipe a tear from his eye. "Lad, that's not the problem. The Council will only attend the Feast if it is held in your home."

"My home?" Drew asked, baffled by the request. "Why would they want the Feast to be conducted in a cottage outside of Tuckborough?"

"No lad. They want to hold the Feast at your real home. The home you've not stepped inside for over twenty years. This year, Brenn's Feast will be held in the Howling Hall, the estate in Westland belonging to your father and all previous generations of Grey Wolves."

"You mean..."

"Yes, Drew," the Duke said in a voice choked with emotion. "You're going home."

 **Whew! That was quite the opener, wasn't it? Nice to see dear Hector having recovered from his dreadful ordeal, Miloqi still as mysterious as ever and Bergan showing a much more complex side to him that we have never known. But what do we make of Hayan, the Omiri lord? Is he to be trusted, or will he prove blood is thicker than water, and become a greater threat than his mother ever was? Hmm? Keep reading to find out!**

 **Peace!**


	2. Chapter 2: The Roads We Go Down

**Greetings and salutations! Herein lies the second instalment of what I hope will be a lengthy piece of fiction. As always, if you've stumbled across me and my work, please feel free to leave some comment or constructive criticism, it'll help me to become a greater writer. Enjoy!**

 _The Roads We Go Down_

Drew sat in the saddle of Bravado, hood up to ward off the heavy rain. The Great West Road lay before them, its ends obscured by the gloomy weather. To his left, Trent dozed gently, raindrops pinging off the metal helm he wore. To his right, the reassuring sound of a whetstone being dragged along the head of a gargantuan spear rang out, the noise dulled by the roar of the storm overhead.

Hector trotted up alongside Drew and called out over the downpour. "Miloqi said she saw something!"

"How can she see anything in this blasted storm? Tell her it was just the rain," Drew replied bitterly.

"No Drew, I think she meant—"

A flash of lightning illuminated the road briefly. In that sudden moment of clarity, Drew registered the presence of a figure, stood alone in the centre of the road. Then its phantom shape melted back into the rain as the darkness returned, heralded by the booming thunder.

"On second thoughts Hector, send Miloqi up here. I think she may be right. Get the men on guard, we aren't alone on this road."

Seconds later, a white mare carrying the Seer pulled up beside Drew. The woman from Shadowhaven inclined her head in greeting. "Grey Son. You heeded my warning."

"I've known you too long, Miloqi, to be distrustful of what you see."

The White Wolf grinned, her white hair uncovered and dripping with water. "By Brenn! The Grey Son has learned to be wise! When did this happen?"

Drew let loose a short burst of laughter, his shoulders heaving as he was once again caught off-guard by the Seer's mischievous wit. No matter how many times he spoke to the last female White Lycanthrope on Lyssia, he could never predict what she would say next. In some ways, she reminded him of his beloved Whitley.

Miloqi's smile widened, and she placed a willowy hand on Drew's metal gauntlet. "I know you still grieve, Grey Son. Believe me when I say I know. You and me, we are both alike. Both the last remaining member of their line, both having lost the one they loved most. But we are Wolves, and this means we are strong. You must remember this, Grey Son, when you face your next challenge."

Drew looked down into her serious grey eyes, caught out by the sight of a rapidly growing black blob reflected in her sclera. "Miloqi, are you alright? There's something wrong with your—"

Something latched onto Drew's shoulders, yanking him bodily from the saddle. Shouts of alarm from his companions on the road faded into the storm as he was carried upwards, the rain battering his face. As he rose higher, he released the Wolf.

Where once hung a boy, now hung a hulking lycanthrope. Whatever held his shoulders was tight against his broadened frame, sharp points digging into his flesh, causing him slight discomfort. With new eyes, he glared at his captor through the rain, a low growl escaping him as realisation struck.

"Release me, Casper!" he shouted over the rain. "Whatever hare-brained scheme this is, it won't go well if you don't let me go."

"No can do, my lord. This is greater than me. I only received a tip-off that you would be coming along this road from some woman. A real beauty too, nice long white hair, grey eyes, pale skin. Wish I could have more time to get to know _her_."

Drew smiled, no longer struggling against Casper's firm grip. "What if I told you that the woman who tipped you off is traveling in my company right now?"

The Seahawk's head bobbed down, amber eyes widening in awe. "Mighty Sosha! Is this a jest, Drew?" Casper let out a triumphant screech, soaring back down towards the road, wings folded to maximise speed.

Drew laughed at the exuberant nature of the young Hawklord, letting the Wolf recede until he was just a man again.

They touched down just in front of the company, the speed of their arrival causing several of the horses to rear up in fear. Casper sunk into a bow as they landed, remaining in therian form, his russet-coloured feathers glistening in the rain. "My lords and lady, pardon my intrusion. I mistook noble Drew here for a common bandit, one who swindled me in a tavern not too far from here." He looked up, eyes lingering on the figure of the Lady of Shadowhaven, blatantly obvious through her drenched white dress, who merely tilted her head in response, a shadow of a grin on her face.

Drew clapped him soundly on the back, before vaulting back into Bravado's saddle. "Well, Casper, as you're here, why don't you join our party? I think that with your… illustrious heritage, you'll be more than welcome at Brenn's Feast," he joked, throwing his hood down as the constant downpour began to lighten.

"I'll take you up on that offer, my lord. Any excuse to break bread with old friends is a good excuse in my ledger." He shook his wings out, flexing them slightly to impress Miloqi. She looked on in apparent interest as he took off. Watching him execute a perfect loop, she stood in the saddle and blew him a delicate kiss, a movement that caused the young Werehawk to race away into the clouds, uttering trills of happiness as he did so.

Miloqi sat back down in the saddle, aware of Drew's eyes watching her in amazement. "Jealous, Grey Son?" she asked gleefully. "He's a little young, granted, but he's got his father's looks and charms. You could take lessons from that one."

Drew could do nothing but sit and stare at Miloqi, his mouth hanging open as the last female White Wolf trotted past him, having utterly blasted apart his knowledge of her character. Gone was the mischievously mysterious young Seer, replaced by a mysteriously attractive woman. _When did she stop being the Miloqi I knew_?

A carriage came into view ahead on the road, pulled by two weary oxen. As it drew parallel to the band of assorted Werelords, the tarpaulin covering its frame was pulled away, revealing six armoured men with drawn bows.

"Scatter!" yelled Drew, having sensed the danger prematurely, on account of his lupine senses. His fellow therianthropes leapt from the saddles of their mounts, embracing the change as they did so. The first volley of arrows soared far over their heads.

Their attackers' faces paled dramatically upon realisation that they had chosen to attack a convoy of Werelords. Committed to the task, they dropped their bows and unsheathed swords, launching themselves forward with shouts of war, the weak sunlight reflecting off the silver embedded within their blades.

 **Oh noes! However will our heroes survive this attack? Silver is deadly to therianthropes, and none of our company is armoured! Next chapter's fight will be a thriller (hopefully).**

 **Peace!**


	3. Chapter 3: A Crippling Blow

**Greetings and salutations! Once more, we find yet another instalment of this Herculean task I've set myself. As per usual, if you've stumbled across me and my work, wherever you're from, please feel free to leave some comment or constructive criticism, it'll help me to become a greater writer. Enjoy!**

 _A Crippling Blow_

The men warily encircled the shifted Werelords, swords held unwaveringly before them. Beneath their piecemeal armour, Drew spied flashes of scarlet and gold cloth.

"Lionguard," he spat through his fanged maw, the very word deeply affecting all who stood beside him.

Mikotaj growled, a low, booming sound that reverberated around the group. Miloqi took up the call, adding her own melodic tone to the chorus. Hayan and Drew looked at each other briefly, throwing back their heads and unleashing their wildest cries. Somewhere above, deep within a cloudbank, came the shrill screech of an enraged Hawklord, and even Hector, who for years neglected his therianthropy, partially embraced the change and let loose a throaty bellow, tusks carving through his face as he did so.

The men whimpered at the verbal assault delivered by their opponents, and in this moment of uncertainty, Drew's company struck.

Moonbrand swung forth, the Sturmish steel glittering in the light. Wielded by the expert hand of the last Grey Wolf, it smashed into the closest Lionguard's sword, shattering the weaker metal blade into countless sparkling fragments, before sliding effortlessly into the man's unprotected neck, neatly severing his head from his torso.

The speed at which one of their own had been dispatched frightened the remaining five men, but his death goaded them into action. Five silver blades fell on five therianthropes. The wounds burned like fire, provoking the Werelords to engage in the most savage of combats. Weapons were thrown aside as tooth, tusk and claw sought to eliminate the enemy.

"Miloqi!" Drew called desperately, on seeing the White Wolf pinned on the ground, a silver-blessed sword held tight against her throat. Even as she struggled to draw a breath, the blade bit into her flesh, drawing blood that stood out in stark contrast to her pristine white fur. "Let the Wolf go Miloqi, or you'll die!"

Miloqi nodded, the lycanthrope retreating within her body once more, revealing her to be a no more than a woman. The soldier's eyes lightened considerably, and he leaned in to whisper in her ear, "My my, what a precious one you are." The man ran his free hand down Miloqi's chest and legs, grinning as he saw realisation dawn in her grey eyes. "Maybe you could serve me in a different way. It would be a shame to put your head over my mantle, perhaps I'll have you in my bed instead!"

A shadow loomed over the man, giving him reason to pause. "How. Dare. You," Casper said, hovering a few feet from the ground, "Touch. The. Lady." He lashed out with a foot tipped with talons, gaining a firm grip on the man's head. He rocketed upwards, pulling the man screaming behind him. At the apex of his soar, he grabbed one of the man's legs with his other foot, and proceeded to pull the man in opposite directions. A resounding crack echoed from the clouds, followed by the sound of two pieces of meat hitting the ground at great speed from a greater height.

Drew looked disdainfully at the piles of flesh that had once been a man. "Casper! That was too far!"

Casper landed before him in a flutter of feathers. "Too far? You decapitated the first man! And look at the other one," he said, pointing at a corpse with three great gashes in his armour and chest, signs that the White Fist of Icegarden had been used in the fight. "You nearly ripped him in half! So how am I the one in the wrong?" The Werehawk's shoulders shuddered as he drew in deep breaths, attempting to calm himself.

Miloqi walked forward slowly, reaching out with one delicate hand towards the bloodstained beak of the Seahawk. Casper turned his head, allowing her to cup his feathered cheek, and looked defiantly into her peaceful grey eyes. They remained like that for some time, fighting for dominance with their eyes alone.

Eventually, Casper's resolve broke, and his Werehawk form fell away like a cloak, revealing a young man terrified by the consequences of his actions. Miloqi lowered her hand, but Casper grabbed at it before she could place it at her side. Mikotaj growled softly at the action, causing Casper to drop his hand, cheeks burning red with embarrassment.

"All right Werelords, mount up! We've still got a fair distance to go until we reach Howling Hall!" called Hector, trying to diffuse the painful tension building between the assorted therianthropes.

Drew dropped back on Bravado to speak with Hector. "So what was that? Casper's never been that aggressive, or standoffish. He's normally a well-mannered soul, at least, he was last time we saw each other."

"That was five years ago Drew. Things change. And Casper suffered more than most. Finding out Vega was his father, Shah was his mother, the two of them reuniting then Vega dying from a silver dagger to the chest. The last five years can't have been easy for him."

"But he was with Shah, wasn't he?"

Hector shrugged. "His heart was always set on captaining a vessel. A pirate's nature courses through his veins. You can't expect him to _not_ go slightly crazy at being tied to Windfell, destined to be its next ruler. He needs a sea breeze under his wings, not a mountain gust."

Drew nodded, pondering the explanation. "And Miloqi? Her behaviour seems... abstract."

Hector hid a smile at this, nodding sagely as he delivered his knowledge to his friend. "From what I understand, Miloqi's behaviour stems from certain scents in the air causing swings in mood and such."

"Scents in the air? Really?"

Hector snorted loudly. "No, Drew! I'm joking! The most possible theory is that, like most animals, she's in heat. Therianthropes often have trouble controlling base desires such as aggression and pleasure, Wolves and Dogs most of all. Your father's rages are the stuff of legends, Drew. He could level a settlement by himself if he was truly enraged. And the less you listen to what his house staff say about his... intimacies, the better off you are."

Drew shuddered. "So she's looking for... a mate?"

"Most likely. If possible, she'd go for a fellow lycanthrope, but seeing as one is her brother and the other is _you,_ I can see why she's interested in Casper."

Drew laughed, reaching over to slap Hector's shoulder in mock aggression. "The same can be said for you, old friend."

Bravado nickered softly as the Werelords continued down the road, the sun slowly sinking below the horizon behind them.

 **Quite an interesting chapter, I hope. It was a real effort to write, knowing that I had to change the rating to M in order to get my ideas across. Hopefully it won't get too racy as it goes along, but I can't make any promises. The words kind of just... flow onto the page. The next chapter will probably be up sometime next week.**

 **Peace!**


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